


This Sequestered Passion Unreins Us

by Zagzagael



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1807522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zagzagael/pseuds/Zagzagael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early S4. Written to a prompt. What constitutes longing. Acting upon desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Sequestered Passion Unreins Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thelongcon (rainer76)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/gifts).



They all had secret desires, carried them inside their minds the way the earth homes the worm twisting through and digesting the dirt, rendering the soil nutrient rich and fertile. This was how their longings burrowed through their brains. In the new world, the turned world, secrets were harder to hide. More apt to wriggle up to the surface, revealing their segmented presence. Making some uncomfortable with the soft grey body of the thing, making others cock a beady robin’s eye.

Daryl could not look away from masculinity. The square-shaped fingers, the dusting of body hair, thickset shoulders, the flexing of the spine with labor. The tender male animal unraveled the skin from off his bones.

Beth loved fragility. The design of it, the impossible point of it, the fleetingness. 

Rick was drawn to outlawness. Had become a cop in order to be as up close to it as he could get without going rogue himself. He had never been brave enough, stupid enough, daring enough. Had had too much to lose before. But still he knew it called to him in a gruff voice, all tattoos and bruised knuckles, back alleys and alcohol overdoses. Giving the middle finger to society, yet throwing oneself like a wrench into the workings of the world. Using one’s fists as both threat and collateral. 

Maggie desired the exotic. Wanted to wrap her hair in a chignon with two ebony sticks to hold it in place. Wished her feet broken and bound, the fetishized flesh channel created for pleasure. Dreamt of luxuriating in bolts of dyed silk.

Hershel longed for the comfort of a woman’s body. The soft pliancy of flesh. The feminine surrender. And the World Series.

Glenn daydreamed of cars. Played over and over the memory tape of the hour he had driven the Dodge Challenger out of Atlanta.

Carol wanted to be kissed with wild abandon. By a girl.

***  
It had been almost a year. Maggie and Glenn kept the idea of romantic love safe for all of them. Viable, real. But also, rare and limited to just the two of them. No one else had the time, focus, inclination, or required bravery. The balls. To just let the gaze linger, eyes narrowing, lips rolling between teeth. The flush that starts at the thinnest point of the body, the ridged breastbone painted with flesh, the heat prickling there, the sheen of sweat, the iron filings seeking magnet, the longing that spreads out as though riding each and every curving rib bone back to the spine and ricocheting up and down the jittering jagged points of vertebrae, exploding out the top of the skull and down between the juncture of the thighs. The wet and wild heat of it. No one was doing that. Or at least they weren’t letting on that one or another of their group could elicit such response.

The laws of attraction had become a physical equation where X could stand for anyone and Y could be used for any coupling. 

***

It happened on a run. Just the two of them. The council had decided to begin aggressively stocking the prison. Squirrelling away the spoils for the long winter to come. Reduce the runs, reduce the risk. In teams of two, more room in the car for the plunder.

Starting at one end of a designated suburban block, they methodically moved down the street, house by house, knock knock who’s there trick or treat. Scavengers now, but it made good sense. They could harvest two to three houses at a time. Exponentially they were separating the wheat from the chaff. 

Food, clothing, weapons. Trivialities, books, writing supplies, bedding, toiletries. Medical supplies topped their list and took precedence and weight over all other things, sustenance included. The spoils were rich, the plunder piratical and Rick and Daryl took to it as though it were in their blood. 

They were on their second house and it would be the last for the day, there had been armloads and hefty bagfuls of usable goods. Feminine hygiene products and both men put on a show of utter seriousness until the last unopened box of tampons and then they could not hold back the sniggering, shouldering one another, laughing. Deep down they were happy to be able to return to the prison with such useful loot. Wanted to see the woman embarrassed and pleased.

Upstairs, in the upscale two-story, there was a loft with a wall-mounted flat screen and floated in the middle of the carpeted floor was a sofa that spoke to wasted hours spent with film or tv or games. Deep and long, wide and elegantly down-filled. Daryl sighed exaggeratedly and sat down in the middle, the filth of his torn Carharts, the worn Red Wing contractors, the leather vest all contrasting with the Pottery Barn affect. The snub. His arms spread wide across the low back, letting his head fall against it, a leisurely crucified Christ. And this caught Rick’s eye. 

He stood, stock still, stunned by the heat that was rising up out of the center of him, the core of his engine white hot. He was literally overheating, and months and months of running on empty, everything inside him used up to nothingness, had led to this moment. The end of the world, the afternoon edging into night, hunger as familiar as fullness had once been. Amazed, he watched as Daryl huffed his awareness at being watched. He slitted his eyes open to see him, really see him, and the act of being seen, stripped by this man’s gaze, left him panting. All the blood in his body rushed down the length of his dick and he did not hesitate. 

Hesitation could kill you. Action was the thing that would save you. In the new world. The world turned.

With two long strides, he was on him and Daryl had watched him come, waiting in those interminable seconds with as hungry a look as Rick had ever seen the man wear. He straddled him, knees buried in the agonizingly soft down, long-fingered hands reaching and holding the other man’s face, fingertips in his ears, thumbs pressing bruises into the lucky horseshoe bone of his jaw as he pushed upwards and crashed his mouth onto Daryl’s lips. 

Daryl’s arms closed around his waist, fingers digging into the well of his spine, arching himself up off the seat, rocking into the underside of his thighs, and with an unbelievable male strength, he twisted their joined bodies so that Rick was beneath him, flat on his back, head on the far arm rest. His legs fell open as Daryl pressed himself firmly home between his knees. And then he pulled his lips down into the taut length of his throat and Rick groaned with a need so fierce, so sharp, that it cut away everything else. The world, the Walkers, the prison, the family. The moment was excised out of all the days of their lives.

Daryl’s hands were flat palms, defibrillator paddles, on his chest, and Rick felt the electric shock jolt through him, bathing his tongue in the coppery taste of adrenaline. Both of them reached between the writhing of their desperation, jerking for completion, snapping belts out of buckles, zippers dragged open, hot cocks pulled out each by his own hand, then Daryl batted his hand out of the way and had both of them in the circle of his fist. Rick let his head fall back, mouth parsed open, the tip of his tongue dancing frantically along his front teeth. Daryl reared back to give himself more room, situated themselves, and then let go. He reached up, palm hot and fast on the top of Rick’s head, tongue nearly into his tonsils, seeking out the roof of his mouth, grinding his hips at a sideways cant, and with the rhythm of one, two, three thrusts, both men tumbled over the edge of the cliff they had dragged one another to. They fell, thrashing to hold fast, Rick’s hands on the jutting hipbones, Daryl’s hands tight on the sides of the other man’s face.

Slowly and with great deliberation, Rick trailed his fingertips up under Daryl's shirt, smoothing the scarred skin of his back with calm even strokes. Daryl nestled his face into the crook of his neck, mouthing the thick tendon that ran along the width of his shoulder. They lay spent in one another's arms.


End file.
